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Dabi taps the notification on his screen with far more eagerness than he would like to admit. He wiggles in his seat and even feels his heart doing a backflip. It’s ridiculous. It’s just a fucking text message. He doesn’t even get this excited when he sees his dealer standing in the corner.
It’s all short-lived, though. The text reads: Can’t make it. Talk to you tomorrow.
For the third time this week, Dabi sighs and tosses his phone away, looking to the other side of the room as the thing thuds to the floor. Thank fuck for heavy-duty phone cases.
And so, that’s that.
+++
Chisaki wakes up with a throbbing headache the following morning. He inelegantly rolls over onto his stomach and groans into the pillow. Chisaki does not particularly enjoy alcohol, but the people he was negotiating with last night were of a very peculiar and predictable type, and so he had bought bottle after bottle to offer them in hopes of getting on their good side. In the end, they had agreed to make an investment, but with every passing second, he convinces himself that it wasn't worth it. The sunlight filtering through his window feels like a personal affront. His sheets feel disgusting, sticky, heavy.
Chisaki stretches his arm sideways and taps the spot next to him in search of something—of someone, and frowns when all he feels is cool sheets. He peeks to the side as if he needed to double-check, and it’s only when he sees how pristine his bedroom looks that he remembers the half-drunk text he sent the night before.
So he gives himself one minute before reaching for his phone. He taps and scrolls as he groans, only to find no reply. Nothing whatsoever.
Dabi.
It’s past 11 a.m., so Chisaki imagines the guy must be awake by now. He gives it five minutes. Then ten. Fifteen.
Dabi. I know you’re reading these.
Chisaki takes his phone to the kitchen where he gulps down half a bottle of water and sits at the table, far too queasy and uncomfortable to even think of cooking some breakfast. He actually would prefer to shower and order some food, and he actually would prefer if he had some company to distract from his misery. But the company refuses to type a goddamn thing back.
He sighs, takes another sip of water, and dials Dabi’s number.
It rings, and rings, and rings, and Chisaki can feel his irritation growing alongside his headache by the time he hangs up and dials again.
“What?” Dabi answers, raspy and cutting.
“Wh—I don’t have time for this,” Chisaki rolls his eyes, rubbing his temple. “Why are you ignoring my texts?”
“Cuz I don’t wanna talk to you, genius, get the hint,” Dabi grumbles, but oddly enough, he doesn’t actually hang up.
Chisaki sighs. “Come over. We don't have to talk.”
“Fuck off,” Dabi barks, and then he does hang up.
Chisaki’s headache is only getting worse.
+++
It’s past six when Chisaki’s irritation reaches a boiling point. He ignored it for most of the day, took some aspirin, went about his bath, his errands, even took some time to read and vegetate in front of the TV, but it’s unbearable now. Dabi’s pissy attitude gnaws at his brain like a rat chewing through a wire. It’s as obnoxious as the guy himself.
Chisaki gives it one last try, and upon receiving no reply again, he decides to get in his car and search for a clear answer. He thinks it’s the least a rational adult should do.
Dabi’s address has become as familiar as his own. He drives through narrow, lonely streets and around dark corners as if through muscle memory: two blocks away from the convenience store is the safest place to park, Dabi’s building is across the street, next to a pharmacy. It’s all filthy-looking. The air everywhere makes him sick.
It’s been about six months since he met Dabi. Nine, he corrects himself: the first time he saw this scarecrow was in late April. The first time he fucked him was in early May. Dabi showed up to a cafe one morning in September and set down three keys hooked through a ring attached to a tiny red pompom and a small plastic penis on top of the table where Chisaki was drinking his tea.
“What the hell?”
“They’re copies of my house keys, dumbass,” Dabi rolled his eyes as he explained this, but Chisaki distinctly remembers the skin of his cheekbones turning so red it put the cherries painted on the walls to shame. “If there’s an emergency or whatever. Don’t gotta give me yours.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
But then Chisaki had. It was logical. He spent a ridiculous amount of time with the villain, he had given him his personal phone number, had taken him along as backup for deals where he didn’t quite trust the people involved. So he had given Dabi a set of keys of his very own, sans a crude, tasteless keychain. Dabi had, of course, abused this privilege beyond Chisaki’s wildest dreams, making himself at home in the middle of the night and smashing crap around the kitchen when he was high and decided he wanted to cook himself a meal. What a grating creature he is.
Chisaki, on the other hand, has never used his. He had in fact forgotten where he had kept the keys up until this very evening, so now he’s feeling his skin crawl and jiggling a red pompom and a minuscule dick to try to open the door to the building. How had his life come to this? He doesn’t need this. He’s the capo of the Shie Hassaikai. He doesn’t belong in this building that stinks of humidity and piss on the ground floor and pot right above, where he knows Dabi’s apartment is. He doesn’t need this. He should turn on his heel and preserve some dignity. Maybe throw this ridiculous keychain away—why had he even kept it? What would people think if they saw this?
Chisaki is at least glad that the smell is coming from the door at the other side of the hallway, and that when he swings Dabi’s door open, the only stench assaulting his nostrils is that of regular cigarette smoke. Dabi is unbearable whenever he’s breathing, but he’s outright impossible when he’s stoned. Giggling, touching, asking the dumbest things, unaware of the concept of personal space. A grating, annoying creature.
“Dabi?” Chisaki calls out, dreading the thought of having to remove his shoes as he takes a quick look at the floor. It’s dark in here, but Chisaki can see a light glow coming from under the bedroom door and hear the muffled voices from what he guesses must be the TV. Or maybe Dabi watching porn. It wouldn’t be the first time he walks in on him in the middle of it.
Chisaki adjusts his glove and knocks on the bedroom door, calling out for Dabi again.
Since he doesn’t get a reply, he swings the door open, bracing himself for the worst.
But instead of finding Dabi in a bad spot, he finds him bundled up under a blanket with his eyes wide and fixed on the TV. Probably watching a movie, in the dark, only illuminated by the screen and a simple lamp on the floor next to his futon. Frowning, Dabi looks up at Chisaki, and once he seems to register who he is, he rolls his eyes.
“What do you want?” Dabi scoffs. He sounds like a spoiled brat on the verge of throwing a tantrum. Chisaki doesn’t know why he’s ever given him the time of day.
Chisaki doesn’t have an answer. He can actually feel the words as they get stuck in his throat.
“Said I don’t wanna talk to you ‘n you fuckin’ come all the way here? For fuck’s sake, dude,” Dabi grumbles, shifting on his futon. And yet again, not putting any actual effort into kicking Chisaki out.
“Okay. That’s enough with the attitude,” Chisaki flips the switch to turn on the light, and ignores Dabi’s whining and the overly-dramatic way he covers his eyes. “What’s wrong with you?”
“With me? What’s wrong with me?” Dabi sounds genuinely insulted. He even sits up on the futon and shoves his blanket aside. “What—fucking shit, you got some nerve!”
Chisaki blinks.
“You fucking—” Dabi shakes his head incessantly, shifting and bending his legs to pull on a pair of socks. “I’m not at your beckoned call, Kai! Ain’t gonna wait around for you like a little bitch.”
“Beck and call—”
“Fuck! Whatever,” Dabi grunts, loudly, and tosses one of the socks to the side, quickly finding the correct pair.
“What’s your problem?” Chisaki’s voice comes out a lot higher than he would’ve liked.
“My problem,” Dabi growls, twisting his fingers into a claw-like shape as if he wanted to strangle Chisaki. “You’re an asshole!”
“Dabi.”
The headache is definitely coming back.
“You’ve been cancellin’ on me all week. Not even a fuckin’ call, just one shitty text after another,” Dabi grumbles and finally stands up, wearing only a pair of boxers. Of course, this doesn’t stop him from walking around the futon towards the door, even less from continuing the tirade he’s got going. “If you don’t wanna see me anymore you can just fucking tell me and stop pussyfooting around it.”
Chisaki instinctively stops Dabi from leaving by blocking the door with his arm, but then he blinks, frowns, stares at Dabi’s face hoping to find some indication that this is one of those weird jokes he doesn’t get. But Dabi’s fuming.
“What are you going on about?” Chisaki asks, at last, after staring for far too long.
“Am I speakin’ Russian or somethin’?” Dabi slaps his arm away and growls and stomps out of the bedroom and into his living room.
“You’re acting like a child,” Chisaki follows after him, dusting his sleeves off. His neck is itchy. He detests this apartment. “Come with me and we can maybe talk like adults when you’re done throwing a tantrum.”
“No!” Dabi nearly roars, stomping into the kitchen. He slams the fridge door open, angrily opens a bottle of beer, furiously gulps it down, and pointedly shoots an accusing finger at Chisaki who, for some ungodly reason, continues to follow him around. “Ain’t goin’ back to your place, ain’t lettin’ you stay here, and I ain’t fuckin’ you. So go.”
Chisaki sputters.
“I said go!”
Chisaki isn’t entirely sure what string of curses he throws at Dabi, or what Dabi spits back. All he knows is that by the time he’s back out the door, his head is throbbing again, and the soreness radiates to his chest all the way back home.
+++
Chisaki types out Dabi’s name in the text message box at 2 a.m. that night. And then again at 3. And with the first rays of sunlight shining through. He can’t bring himself to hit ‘Send.’
It’s fine. He doesn’t need Dabi.
+++
After three days, Chisaki tries to convince himself that the quiet and calm in his apartment isn’t driving him crazy. It had been a while since he enjoyed this for so long: three days without an endless string of needy texts or an obnoxious buzzing at his door or Dabi inserting himself in his personal bubble for hours on end. Chisaki can sit and read the papers without interruption, he can walk around his apartment without spraying air freshener everywhere to try to disguise the stench of smoke, he can cook whatever he wants without having to cater to the world’s pickiest eater, he can use his bed to sleep and only sleep.
Except he can’t.
He’s growing irritable, more than usual, and even Nemoto has gone out of his way to point this out. Just tonight, Chisaki splattered a small-time dealer’s hand much to Nemoto’s horror. The man screeched and Nemoto sputtered until Chisaki cursed and put the thing back together like the dealer didn’t deserve it.
“I don’t know what’s up your ass, but you gotta cut it out” Hari says, tactful as ever, before rejoining the rest of his men for a drink in the main hideout.
Chisaki doesn’t want to dignify that with a response, so he simply leaves. Yet he can hear the mumbling as soon as he walks out the door.
“Maybe he just needs to get laid,” Irinaka whispers and Chisaki hears Deidoro laugh alongside him, and then his slurred voice: “Let’s get Toya to do it, sure he wouldn’t mind takin’ one for the team.”
Chisaki’s heart skips a beat. His eyes go wide. He can feel the heat rising to his cheeks and getting trapped inside his gloves. It’s an embarrassing display. Especially when it’s Setsuno they’re all talking about, and not his Touya.
His—
He’s being ridiculous. Just like Dabi.
And the man has been ridiculous since the very night they met, but he’s been acting particularly strange all month. Sure it’s fine when Dabi texts him “sorry boss, omw now!” when he’s an hour and a half late for something, but if Chisaki does the same, suddenly the entire world crumbles and Dabi disappears into his hole of an apartment to sulk and throw a hissy fit. The thought makes Chisaki so annoyed that he pulls out his phone, determined to give Dabi a piece of his mind, when he notices the date on the screen.
So it’s January 21st.
Well. Fuck.
+++
Dabi busies himself with a game of solitaire and a cigarette. It’s cold and miserable, it’s even snowing outside, or it was when he slammed his window shut two hours before. He turns up the volume on his TV just for the sake of not being driven mad by the silence and grumbles at every stupid word he overhears. Shitty romance movies aren’t something he enjoys, ever, but the dialogue is actively pissing him off now. The fact that there’s an empty tub of chocolate ice cream with a plastic spoon still inside it only pours salt on the wound. He remembers, vaguely, that he mocked Yumi for weeks on end when he witnessed this behavior after her first break-up when she was 12. So he’s essentially become a sulking, over-dramatic teenage girl. For no reason. Over a guy he was just fucking weekly. Not a boyfriend, not the love of his life, just a constant lay. The sex wasn’t even that good.
That’s a lie.
The sex is the only thing he misses.
That’s another lie.
“Shut the fuck up, just dump the fucking guy,” Dabi grumbles at the protagonist’s pathetic, crying, begging face. “Plenty of dick in the fuckin’ ocean.”
He takes a puff of his cigarette and flips the next card on the batch, groaning. After a second or two, the doorbell rings, and while he’s not in the mood to experience any kind of human interaction right this moment, he’s glad that he at least has a more tangible reason to quit making himself suffer with this romance movie bullshit.
Except when he opens the door, Chisaki’s standing there with an enormous burgundy box and a frown on his face and hives on his temple. It’s damn near comical. Chisaki looks ridiculously out of place, and Dabi gapes at him for far too long before he even thinks about speaking.
“What?” Dabi asks, but there’s no bite to his tone. Not like the last time they spoke.
“I—I got this,” Chisaki points at the box with his chin.
“The fuck is that?”
Chisaki sighs, exasperated. Dabi’s sure that he is the one who should be huffing and puffing since he’s made it clear that he’s done with Chisaki’s horseshit.
Without saying another word, Chisaki invites himself into Dabi’s apartment. He kicks off his shoes, does not let go of the box, and looks around with a look of disgust before his eyes fall on the TV, and his frown deepens. He turns to look at Dabi, who is rushing and fumbling to turn the thing off before more damage can be made, but it’s too late. Chisaki spots the mess of an ashtray, the empty beer cans, the damning evidence of Dabi’s pathetic wallowing in the shape of an empty ice cream tub, and he raises an eyebrow.
“Shut up,” Dabi says before Chisaki can speak.
“I wasn’t saying anything,” Chisaki sighs. “Look just take this,” he offers Dabi the box, nearly shoves it in his chest when Dabi hesitates for a second.
“Kai—”
“You’re impossible,” Chisaki huffs. “Take it and open it so we can stop this ridiculous thing.”
”I’m impossible, alright,” Dabi grumbles, but ultimately does as he’s told. He opens the box and finds a wide assortment of chocolates inside it. Dark, milk, white, strawberries covered in it, truffles, every sort of bite-sized chocolate treat Dabi can imagine is in there. He feels a wide grin splitting his face in half, pulling at his staples, but he’d rather have that than have the heat that would turn his skin tomato-red show. “Chocolates?”
“I don’t fucking know, okay?” Chisaki huffs, his voice is raspy, he even throws his hands in the air before dropping them to his side. “You were throwing a tantrum all week, I remembered it was your birthday at some point and figured that’s why you had a stick up your ass. I don’t know, Touya, I’ve never done this.”
Dabi laughs. It’s only when Chisaki is truly irritated that he brings out Dabi’s name like this, like some insult. Usually, Dabi would only roll his eyes or shoot a quick little flame in his direction, but this time he has no desire to do either of those things.
He sets the box down on his wreck of a coffee table and steps closer to Chisaki, whose arms are now firmly crossed above his chest. He steps closer, closer, right up until he can slip his hands around Chisaki’s waist and grin up at him.
“You stink,” is all Chisaki grumbles, muffled through the mask. The tips of his ears are bright red. “How long since you showered?”
“This mornin’, weirdo,” Dabi answers, giving Chisaki’s waist a squeeze, pulling himself closer, his neck tilted back to try to catch his gaze.
“Mm.”
“Y’know. Some people would just say they’re sorry,” Dabi purrs, leaning in for a kiss and laughing again when Chisaki puts his enormous hand on his face. It’s so hot. “But not mister big capo over here, huh? He comes in with expensive chocolates.”
“Shut up,” Chisaki rolls his eyes, and finally pulls his hand away, craning his own neck back but not moving away from Dabi’s groping. “Don’t know why I even bother.”
Chisaki’s still frowning. He presses his hand to Dabi’s chest, feeling the hard edge of his collarbone and that ungodly heat bubbling under his scars and skin. He hums again, watching Dabi’s staples strain to keep his face together through the triumphant, fond grin that only keeps getting bigger. And he looks him in the eye. Bright blue, a little misaligned, lazy, gorgeous.
“That’s all you’re getting from me,” Chisaki whispers, pressing his thumb to one of the staples right underneath Dabi’s lazy eye.
Dabi nuzzles his head right into his touch. He’s beaming.
“Uh huh. Sure.”